


My Flower

by Petrichor17



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Memory Loss, Muteness, Soft Nakamoto Yuta, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 15:06:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18284738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petrichor17/pseuds/Petrichor17
Summary: Yuta's a florist and runs his shop with his roommate and best friend Doyoung. A pretty boy comes in one day, already beefing with Doyoung and recognizes Yuta, but how can he when Yuta doesn't remember those eyes? When he doesn't remember who he used to be?





	My Flower

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic ever, so i don't know how it's gonna go, but I'm doing it anyways lol. I also don't really know how the language of flowers works in depth, so take the meanings lightly in terms of accuracy. I don't really know much about muteness and in no way, shape, or form am I trying to offend anyone, but if I do please call me out. Thank you and I hope you enjoy reading this :)

 

A light tinkling disperses through the air as Yuta's hands linger on the head of a purple lilac as he turns to squint at the shadow enshrouded in rays of sunshine. The plants hanging overhead sway with the overdraft the stranger brings and for the thousandth time he hopes the nails hold strong. His eyes flicker from one vine to another as they wave gently at the stranger in their terracotta houses. As the last pot finally stills so does his heart and his eyes trail down towards the ivory fluff the vines seem to outstretch toward.

“Hello, how can I help you today?” a flurry of raven whisks in front of Yuta's face. The boy cranes his head slightly to the left and his eyes seem too big for his face as he stares Yuta down and Yuta can just feel honeysuckle begin to bloom along him neck and venture toward his ears, sidestepping so he's hidden behind Doyoung's fluffy hair.

“Ahem,” Doyoung clears his throat attempting to draw up his shoulders, attempting to hide Yuta from the stranger in the light washed jean jacket. His eyes seem to narrow as he takes Doyoung in for a moment before coming to rest onto Yuta for a second that seems way too drawn out to really be a second, and then centers onto Doyoung again.

“Yeah, can I place an order?” Yuta sees his friend's shoulders stiffen as his question remains unanswered. Yuta chances a quick glance at the male to see what‘s changed, but all he sees is a quirk of a thick eyebrow and irises an intense bronze. Nudging Doyoung slightly, Yuta sees him breath in deeply as if coming up from underwater.

“Yeah, of course,” he huffs and his voice has got an edge to it, but not too sharp where it’d be completely noticeable, more like the swift slice of a paper cut.

Out of the corner of Yuta's eye a fleck of purple drifts towards the floor and he hurries over, remembering the wilting violet lilac he had been attending to before. Grabbing the nearest watering can and lifting the soft head of the flower with his stained hands Yuta sets to work reviving the beauty. The lilting of voices turns into slight murmurs lulling him into a tranquil state.

“Yuta,” and for the second time today his fingers brush against the lilacs in a farewell as Doyoung places the crisp white sheet with his neat cursive filled with loops and smooth lines onto the table. He’s grinning at Yuta, all teeth, as he chirps, “I need this done in 10 minutes.” The grin on his face is a challenge, knowing from the way Yuta's hip juts out this is almost an impossible task.

“You’ve done it before. Come on, Yuta.” he whines as Yuta stare him down as memories of the time he had to rush an arrangement for a wedding that was due the next day only to find out that the wedding wasn’t until the next month.

A sigh leaves his lips, “Fine I’ll give you 15 minutes to get it done.” Yuta tilts his head to the side and flashes him a small grin before setting to work on the bouquet.

Traipsing around the shop he's equipped with the white slip detailing his orders in search of blossoms. To any other person wandering around the shop it may just have that overpowering scent of earth and flowers, but to him it smells like life. Petrichor seems to always permeate throughout the shop as if forever stuck in an endless downpour. Every step welcomes a new scent whether one that simply compliments the dewy aroma or one that stands alone from it.

As he finally gathers all of the flowers he weaves his way back toward the Flower Table as his brother so adequately named it. Remnants of colors from the blood-red roses to the forget-me-not blues stain the table, almost like a branding, a chapter in each flower set in the story of a bouquet. It used to serve as the front desk when the best friends first started out until it became stained too many shades of too many petals from too many accidentally crushed flowers and now is where Yuta's been banished to create bouquets.

Yuta gently lays the blossom across the mosaic of colors stained into the wood. Quirking his head to the side he assesses the stranger’s chosen flowers.

Nutmeg geraniums seemingly glowing, _wishing for a meeting_.

An endless amount of flowering reeds, _heaven_.

A single bleeding catchfly resting against geraniums, _I fall victim_.

And golden acacias thrown haphazardly across the table like sunlight reflected off shards of glass, _a secret love._

With the riddle of the flowers stuck in his mind he sets to arranging them as he grasp the catchfly with one hand and scissors with the other and set to deleafing the blossom. Making bouquets always seems to put Yuta in a trance, a place where everything else falls away and all that matters are the slightly damp flowers held loosely in hands that seem too long for wrists too small. By the time he's chosen to blanket the flowers in ivory and bind them in red the last piece falls into place and he's deciphered the secret they hold.

_Upon meeting you, I fall victim to this secret love meant for heaven._

Huh. Usually the orders he make are your basic red roses accented with baby’s breath and a few other sprigs of green to pull it all together, a simple I love you without any context or any real cognitive thinking put into them.

Yuta scans through all of the foliage and clusters of color hoping to find the too tall stranger, only to find Doyoung lazily tapping on the computer on the front counter. He doesn't remember hearing the bell chime, meaning he’s somewhere in here lost in all the plants. Not up for scouring the shop again Yuta gingerly grasps the flowers and decide to just leave them up front for Doyoung to deliver them. The white paper crinkles in his arms as he cradles them, eyes not swaying from the precious cargo in his arms as he makes his way toward the front counter.

Before he even makes it halfway toward the counter ice enshrouds his hands, piercing through his focus and startling him out of his haze, Yuta flinches away. The scuffling of the papers against smooth dewy flowers is like the rustling of dead leaves and Yuta prepares for the streaks of scarlet and gold that are sure to stain the mahogany floors. Only they never get to even brush the floor. Instead the catchfly lays safely tucked in with the geraniums resting against the stranger’s chest. His olive complexion turns his arms into a garden overrun by viridescent vines cradling the bouquet.

Yuta's eyes trail along the expanse of vines, seemingly endlessly, until he sees warm coffee already staring back at him.

“These are beautiful,” his voice is as smooth as the freshly bloomed petals of an orchid and as slow as the falling of cherry blossoms, “as always.”

_As always?_

Yuta's eyebrows furrow and confusion mars his face as he tries to decipher the man's features into ones he recognizes. His mouth seems too delicate with the way his lips are perpetually pouted, so full, like a little flower too big for its stem to hold are foreign to me, a bouquet I didn’t arrange.

Not for the first time today ebony locks whisk in front of Yuta, shrouding him in a black curtain.

“Looks like you’ve got your bouquet! Is there anything else you need?” Doyoung rushes and Yuta's even more confused about how he’s gone from being barely proactive to rushing to help this one customer.

“No, looks like I’m set,” he drawls and the coffee has gone cold as his gaze rests steadily on Doyoung.

Like sunflowers his gaze shifts to Yuta and they’re no longer cold, but as warm and soft as coffee on a snowy day. “Thank you,” he whispers with a tilt to his lips.

Yuta can only give a slow nod of his head in acknowledgment and hears a chuckle from the stranger as he turns and shuffles to the door.

The soft tinkling resonates throughout the store once more and Yuta refocuses his attention from the receding back of the jean-clad stranger onto his fidgeting friend.

“What?” He feigns innocent as his dark irises meet Yuta's own. He only cocks his hip to the side and quirk an eyebrow at Doyoung. Why were you so rude? He ask purely through body language. “It’s how I always act, Yuta. You know I’m a bitch,” he deflects carelessly and walks back towards the front counter to mindlessly type away at the computer again.

 

The sun glides across the window accompanied by the occasional stranger stopping in looking for bouquets, but none as peculiar and thought out as the one with the catchfly center.

By the time Doyoung shimmies the key and locks the deadbolt the flowers are a distant memory in Yuta's mind, just another order he won’t see again. The warm breeze brushes through his hair and a feeling of familiarity washes through him as they make our way down the street toward the apartment complex that seemed to melt into the shadows at this time of night.

When they step inside the lobby, mildew hits them hard and it gets difficult to breathe. Out of instinct Doyoung’s head swivels toward the dingy elevator where the sign screams out in red OUT OF ORDER as it had been for months. Pivoting to his right Yuta steps ahead to start on the stairs that seem more like a cecropia in the rainforest, somehow always wet.

No matter how many times Yuta and Doyoung trek up those stairs the both of them still end up slightly panting by the time they reach the third floor. All of the doors on the floor look like the shells of hard boiled eggs with the way the paint splinters in webs across them.

Peering down the hallway Yuta spots a bundle of white resting gently on their door. He can hear Doyoung breathing carefully through his nose as he stutters his way up the stairs behind him and Yuta treads toward the bundle that seems too soft and clean to belong in such a dank hallway. Thereś a pull on the soles of his shoes as if each step he takes he's stepping in bubblegum. The closer Yuta get the clearer the bundle becomes with little flecks of white and gold peeking out. Once he scoops the bundle up into his arms there’s no mistaking that catchfly.


End file.
